Looking back, I think Tsume handled the situation about as well as anyone could expect from someone who'd just watched death miss her by inches.
Which is to say, she completely froze.
Her face went chalk white, eyes wide as dinner plates, staring at the three assassins I'd just intercepted like her brain was still trying to process what the hell had almost happened.
Mikoto wasn't much better. She'd gone rigid, one hand halfway to her weapon pouch, the other clutching her yukata like it was the only thing keeping her anchored to reality.
Combat shock.
Perfect timing, ladies.
The three assassins were already recovering from my interception, shifting their stances, preparing for round two. In about three seconds, this room was going to turn into a blender with all of us inside it.
Time for the nuclear option.
"KILL EVERYONE AND LEAVE NO SURVIVORS BEHIND!" I roared at the top of my lungs, with enough force to rattle a jonin's spine.
The effect was immediate. Both my teammates' heads snapped toward me, their training kicking in like a slap to the face. Team 7's emergency trigger phrase—the one we'd drilled until they could recite it in their sleep. It meant exactly two things: run like hell, and regroup later.
Mikoto moved first, her hands diving into her pack with the smooth panic of someone used to dodging detention. Two smoke bombs hit the floor and immediately began belching thick gray clouds that filled the room faster than you could blink.
Tsume was right behind her, grabbing both our packs while Kuromaru somehow managed to snag a third smoke bomb in his teeth. All three of them bolted for the door without hesitation, disappearing into the corridor beyond.
Good girls. They remembered their training.
Now for the finishing touch.
In the chaos of the smoke, I formed the hand seals for a clone jutsu. Three basic copies of Team 7 flickered into existence beside me, all wide-eyed and flailing like rookies mid-panic. I sent them sprinting through the garden entrance, their footsteps silent, their movements just convincing enough to draw the eye.
The assassins took the bait instantly. Their real footsteps thundered after my illusions, chasing ghosts into the night.
I slipped out the main door and down the stairs, following the route my teammates had taken. The inn's main floor was in chaos—guests poking their heads out of rooms, staff rushing around trying to figure out what all the noise was about, the general confusion that came with a peaceful evening suddenly going to hell.
I found Mikoto and Tsume crouched behind a decorative fountain in the inn's courtyard, both of them on alert.
"Plan B," I said simply, settling down beside them.
They both nodded without question. We'd covered this scenario during our planning sessions—if we got ambushed, we split up to make tracking us harder, then regrouped at a predetermined location once the immediate threat was handled.
"Five minutes," Mikoto whispered, already checking her gear and testing her wires.
"Make it four," I said.
Tsume glanced at me "Be careful."
"Always am," I said with a grin that probably looked more confident than I felt. "Go."
I stuck to the shadows at street level, moving through narrow alleys and side streets while tracking the sounds of pursuit above me. The assassins had taken to the rooftops, chasing my clones across the traditional tilework, their muffled footsteps bouncing between buildings like a trail of crumbs.
From the ground, I could follow their progress by the occasional creak of roof timbers and the soft scrape of sandals on clay tiles. They were fast, but rooftop movement had its limitations—they had to follow the building lines, while I could cut through gardens and courtyards to stay parallel with their chase.
After a few minutes, the pursuit sounds changed. Instead of three sets of footsteps moving in the same direction above me, I heard them spreading out—one continuing straight overhead, the other two branching off to cover adjacent blocks.
They're not that stupid.
They'd finally figured out the bait were clones.
I crouched behind a low chimney and watched them from a rooftop as they split up, each taking a different slice of the village like they'd drawn up a grid.
'Time to even the odds.'
One of them was heading down the main street, cutting through foot traffic toward the commercial district. I slipped after him at street level, hugging the shadows between vendor carts and alley mouths. When he veered into a narrow gap between two shops, I saw my chance.
I quickly formed the hand seals for another clone, sending it sprinting directly at him from the front while I circled around to his blind spot.
He reacted fast—his tanto came up in a flash, body already shifting into a counter stance. Blade met empty air.
The clone flickered and vanished.
His eyes widened. Just a clone.
I was already there.
My tanto slammed into his back, punching through the soft gap beneath his ribs. I felt it hit bone, then tear through as it sank deeper, muscle and lung folding around cold steel.
He didn't drop.
The bastard twisted—violently, recklessly—on the blade. I felt it tear sideways inside him, but he didn't care. His elbow came whipping back, raw desperation behind the swing.
I ducked. His arm clipped my clothes as he spun, and the motion yanked my blade free with a wet sound and a spray of blood across the alley wall.
He spun to face me, crimson bubbling at his lips, tanto trembling in his grip. "You little—"
I stepped in fast, blade flashing for his throat. He got his weapon up just in time, but it was a sloppy parry—his strength was already bleeding out with every heartbeat.
He lunged to grab my wrist, but I twisted out of reach and slashed across his forearm. Steel tore through muscle, opening a deep gash from elbow to wrist. Blood sprayed across the cobblestones in a hot arc.
"Who sent you?"
Instead of answering, his free hand darted to his vest, fingers fumbling for something in his gear pouch. I caught the glint of an explosive tag just as he started to pull it free.
'Oh hell no.'
I drove my knee into his wounded side, making him scream and double over. The explosive tag slipped from his blood-slicked fingers, fluttering to the ground unactivated. Before he could recover, I grabbed his wrist and twisted until I heard bones snap.
With the last of his strength, he lunged—tanto flashing straight at my chest in one final, desperate strike.
I sidestepped and brought my blade up hard in a rising arc. It caught him under the chin.
The steel punched through soft tissue, sliced past cartilage, and kept going—right up through his jaw, through the roof of his mouth, through his skull. A wet burst of blood and brain matter sprayed the alley as the tip of my blade punched out the top of his head.
He went limp instantly.
The body toppled forward and crumpled to the ground with a meaty thud. Blood pooled fast beneath his head, thick and dark, mixing with bits of bone and gray matter.
His mouth hung slack, tongue drooping past broken teeth.
The sound of running feet echoed from two different directions—his buddies had heard the commotion and were converging fast. Time to go.
I bolted from the alley just as the first kunai embedded itself in the wooden wall where my head had been. Another whistled past my ear, close enough that I felt the wind from its passage.
"There!" one of them shouted. "Northeast!"
I vaulted a low stone wall and dropped into a private garden, feet barely hitting the ground before I rolled hard to the side. A sharp crack split the air behind me—an explosion scorched the dirt where I'd landed, showering me with smoking debris.
Explosive tags. These guys weren't playing around.
Yugakure's hot springs turned out to be perfect for losing a tail. Steam hissed up from cracks in the stone, billowing in thick white plumes that twisted through the air like they had minds of their own.
I darted between the columns, letting the mist swallow my outline. Shouts echoed behind me, disoriented and off-target. A burst of fire jutsu ripped through the fog to my left—a searing arc of heat that missed by inches. I felt the burn along my jacket's sleeve, the fabric curling at the edge.
The heat slapped me, but I didn't slow.
Hopping a garden wall, I landed on a tiled rooftop and kept moving—boots slipping for half a step before finding grip. Another leap took me over a narrow alleyway, steam still curling between every roof and awning.
My brain was already churning.
The timing. The coordination. This wasn't some offhand ambush—it was clean, professional. A hit.
Someone wanted us dead.
But how the hell did they know where to find us?
We'd only been in Yugakure for a few hours. It wasn't like we'd rolled in waving flags.
Sure, I'd asked around about Jiraiya—but always under a henge, voice filtered, face borrowed. No names. No tells.
Unless…
Unless someone had eyes on us before we even got here.
And if that was true—if they knew our route, our timing—then there was only one name that made sense.
Another explosive tag detonated behind me, close enough to shower me with debris. I rolled with the blast and came up running.
A shadow dropped from above—fast.
I caught the flash of steel too late for a clean dodge, but I twisted hard, grabbed his wrist mid-swing, and used his own weight to slam him into the stone wall. The impact cracked mortar.
But he didn't crumple.
He twisted with the blow, snapping an elbow toward my ribs. I braced and caught it on my forearm, the jolt rattling up to my shoulder.
Then I stepped in and drove my knee straight into his gut.
His breath fled in a wheeze. He doubled over, and I raised my elbow to drop it on the back of his neck—
The air shifted behind me.
I dove sideways just as a slicing wind jutsu tore through where I'd been. Compressed air smashed into the alley wall, exploding it in a spray of dust and stone shards.
I hit the ground, rolled, and came up in a crouch.
Another figure landed beside the first. The wounded one was still hunched over, blood on his lips, but his eyes locked onto mine with fury.
"You're faster than expected, genin," he said, already forming hand seals for another jutsu.
"And you're uglier than expected," I replied, backing toward the alley mouth. "But hey, nobody's perfect."
The wounded one straightened up, still wheezing but very much alive. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.
"Kill him," he rasped.
"My pleasure," said the second, already charging.
Two against one, in a narrow alley with limited escape routes. Time to even the odds the fun way.
"Catch me if you can, ladies!" I called out, then bolted toward the main street.
They gave chase immediately, their footsteps pounding behind me as I weaved between buildings. I could hear them gaining ground—they were fast, especially the wounded one. Either adrenaline or spite had kicked in, because he was gaining.
Good.
I pulled them through a maze of tight alleys and sudden corners, keeping the gap just wide enough to stay out of reach—but close enough to keep them biting.
The street opened up, lined with familiar storefronts and paper lanterns swaying in the wind.
And there it was.
A faint glint of steel stretched low between two buildings, barely visible in the shadows.
There's my girl.
I vaulted the tripwire clean, tucked into a roll, and came up running.
Behind me, the first assassin spotted the glint of steel at the last second. He leaped high, clearing the wire by inches—only to land directly on the second tripline positioned three feet beyond the first.
"What the—"
The backup wire snapped taut around his ankles, yanking him sideways into the wall of a shop. Before he could recover, more wire sprang to life from hidden anchor points—whipping around his limbs, pinning him like prey in a web.
The second one had sharper instincts. He leapt over his partner, clearing the trap in a smooth arc and landing in a crouch, tanto drawn and eyes scanning.
But he'd forgotten about the fire user on our team.
"Katon: Ryūka no Jutsu!"
Mikoto's voice rang out from a rooftop above, and I watched as she breathed a concentrated stream of fire that raced along the wire trap like a living thing. The flames followed every strand of steel, turning the entire web into a blazing inferno.
The trapped assassin started screaming. He writhed, the wire digging deeper with every thrash as fire ate through flesh and cloth alike. The stink of burning meat filled the air, thick and choking.
"Kuroda!" the second assassin shouted, spinning toward his partner.
He took one step toward the burning trap before freezing mid-stride, his head snapping around as new danger registered behind him.
Tsume burst from the shadows with Kuromaru at her side, two kunai extended as she lunged for his shoulder. "Piercing Fang!"
The assassin spun just in time to catch the attack—tanto colliding with her kunai in a shower of sparks. Tsume blew past him with raw momentum, hit the ground in a roll, and came up ready.
But Kuromaru was already mid-leap, jaws aimed straight for the throat.
The assassin ducked low, avoiding the bite, and snapped out a brutal backhand that caught Tsume across the jaw. The hit sent her stumbling sideways with a grunt. He didn't hesitate—closed the gap and came in swinging.
Steel flashed. She blocked high. Another strike forced her back.
Two exchanges—that's all it took to see the gap.
His swordplay was too sharp. Every block left her more off-balance, more exposed. She was fighting to keep up.
The third exchange wouldn't be a block.
It'd be a kill.
Time to crash the party.
I burst from the shadows, tanto gleaming as I closed the distance. The assassin's blade swept toward Tsume's throat—I grabbed her shoulder and yanked her back, the steel whistling past where her neck had been.
My tanto came up fast, driving for his ribs. He twisted away, bringing his blade around toward my gut. I leaned back and palm-struck his elbow, knocking his guard wide.
"Katon: Gōkakyū no Jutsu!"
Mikoto's fireball screamed for his shoulder, forcing him to dodge into Tsume's range. Her kunai raked across his back, drawing blood. He snarled, spun, and threw a brutal elbow—but I kicked his leg out just as it would've connected.
He didn't go down, but his footing was wrecked. Now he was cornered, blade snapping between all three of us in desperate, erratic arcs.
Steel clashed—Tsume blocked a slash meant for her head, deflecting it just wide.
"Nice form!" I called out to her, then stepped in and slammed my boot into the assassin's ribs, cutting off his momentum—and opening him up. "Though you might want to work on your follow-through."
Mikoto didn't waste the opening. Her kunai bit deep into his forearm, carving down to the bone.
He jerked back, stumbling away and landing hard on his wounded leg. Blood darkened his pants, thick and spreading. His breath came in shallow gasps, each one edged with panic.
Then his hand drifted to his vest.
Fingers curled around something small. Cylindrical.
Explosive tag.
"Really?" I sighed, already moving. "An explosive tag? In a nice place like this? Do you have any idea what the cleaning deposit's going to cost?"
He was still trying to activate it, chakra sparking along the paper as his tanto came up in a sloppy guard. Desperation all over his face.
I feinted high, blade flashing toward his eyes.
He took the bait—bit hard—raising his weapon to intercept.
His other hand kept feeding chakra into the tag.
At the last second, I dropped low and stepped inside his guard. My free hand snapped up, striking his wrist with a sharp crack—the chakra flow sputtered out on impact.
At the same time, I twisted my blade under his, locking our weapons in a spiral bind. One twist. Two. Steel scraped. His balance broke.
Wide open.
Before he could restart the tag, I spun on him like a barstool on bad flooring—fast and loose—and drove my elbow straight into his gut. Air left his lungs in a single, ugly grunt.
He folded.
I followed through without hesitation—brought the tanto around and up, the point slipping clean under his ribs.
"Sorry about this," I said casually, driving the blade deep. "Nothing personal."
Then I paused.
"Well, actually, it's completely personal since you tried to kill my friends, but you know what I mean."
The steel found his heart.
He gasped, blood bubbling from his lips—then dropped like a puppet with its strings cut.
The alley went still.
I nudged him with my foot to make sure he was actually dead, then looked around at the carnage. Smoke curled around us. The air stank of blood, fire, and the cooked stench of his burning partner down the street.
"Everyone okay?" I called out.
"Could've handled him myself," Tsume muttered, rubbing her jaw.
"Sure you could have," Mikoto said with a smirk.
I wiped my tanto clean. "Come on. Let's go before the locals show up."
…
…
The safe house was quiet, save for the soft rustle of pages and the occasional irritated grunt from Tsume. I'd claimed the couch, one of Tsunade's medical books open across my lap, while our reluctant hosts snored away on the futon behind me. Mikoto's genjutsu would keep them locked in happy dreams—probably something about winning the lottery and opening their own hot spring resort.
The book was actually pretty fascinating, though not for the reasons its author probably intended. The text itself was standard medical doctrine, dry as sand and twice as boring. But her notes. God, her notes were everywhere. Crammed into every margin like she couldn't help herself. Her handwriting was absolutely terrible, this confident, messy scrawl that screamed "I'm brilliant and I know it and I don't have time to make this legible for you." Which, fair enough. She probably was brilliant.
"This is bullshit, cartilage doesn't regenerate that way," she'd written beside a particularly optimistic diagram. A few pages later: "Author clearly never tried this on a real patient." My personal favorite was scribbled in what looked like different ink, as if she'd come back to it later: "Tested this on a pig. Pig died. Don't be the pig."
Reading her annotations felt like getting a private lecture from the legendary medic herself. Each note revealed the woman behind the reputation—someone who'd learned medicine not from textbooks but from getting her hands dirty, one bloody lesson at a time. Her personality bled through every correction, making it feel like she was sitting right there explaining things, probably with a drink in one hand and a scalpel in the other.
Even her corrections were educational. She'd crossed out entire paragraphs and rewritten them in half the space, somehow managing to be both more accurate and more brutal than the original author.
I turned another page, the paper making that satisfying whisper that only good books managed. The lamplight caught the detailed anatomical diagrams, and I found myself getting lost in the complexity of the human body. How chakra pathways intertwined with blood vessels like some impossible highway system. How the smallest disruption could cascade into system-wide failure. It was like reading the blueprint for the most sophisticated machine ever built, except this one bled when you screwed up.
The warm glow from the lamp carved out a little island of peace around me, just enough to forget the ambush for a moment. If I squinted past the bloodstains on my pants, it almost felt normal—like I was just another student cramming for exams, not a genin hiding from assassins.
"Ugh! This is stupid!"
I glanced up from a particularly interesting section about cell regeneration to see Tsume glaring at her reflection in a hand mirror. The reflection stared back with my face—mostly. The nose was off by a few millimeters, the eyes weren't quite symmetrical, and the jawline looked like it hadn't decided what it wanted to be.
"You know," I said, returning to the page, "it's a decent attempt, but any chunin worth his headband would spot the inconsistencies from twenty feet away."
"Shut up," she grumbled, releasing the jutsu with obvious frustration. "I can do henge just fine. I graduated, didn't I? Why do I need to make it all fancy anyway?"
"Because normal disguises don't fool chunin." I flipped to the next page, scanning Tsunade's notes on chakra drift during rapid healing. "And right now, we've got people hunting us who probably know what we look like. Even if your henge isn't perfect, a better one means less chance of being recognized on the street."
"So what's wrong with it then, Mr. Perfect?"
"Everything." I finally looked up and set the book aside. "You're treating transformation jutsu like it's just a mask. Something to hide behind."
"That's... what it is, isn't it?"
"No." I stood, brushing off my pants as I formed the seals. "It's not."
The chakra swirled and settled over me like a second skin. One breath later, Tsume found herself staring into her own face—but the change went deeper than bone structure. My stance shifted, casual and predatory. I rolled one shoulder just like she did when she was sizing someone up. And when I spoke again, it was her voice, down to the clipped rhythm and barely restrained snarl.
"See the difference?" I asked—in her tone. "It's not just looking like you. It's thinking like you. Moving like you. Being you."
I dropped the jutsu, and the illusion peeled away like mist.
"You're hung up on the visual," I said, meeting her eyes. "But appearances don't hold up under pressure. Behavior does. That's what'll get us through the next checkpoint without a kunai in the ribs."
Her scowl faded as she stared, eyes narrowing—not in annoyance, but curiosity. Like she was trying to figure out how the hell I'd pulled it off.
"You want to stay alive?" I added. "Then start thinking like someone who isn't a shinobi. Remember the Yugakure locals we passed a few hours ago—what did they wear? How did they move? How did they look at the locals? Civilians have habits. Posture. Pick it up, mimic it. You don't need to be perfect, just forgettable."
I picked the book back up and flipped to the page I'd dog-eared. "Blend in. That's the mission now."
Tsume stared at me for a moment. "That was... really creepy. But also kind of amazing."
"Creepy's good. Means it's working." I settled back onto the couch. "Try it again, but this time don't just change your face. Change everything—how you hold your shoulders, how you breathe, even how you think. We need to be able to walk through Yugakure tomorrow without anyone giving us a second glance."
She gave a small nod, then closed her eyes. I could see her replaying the faces we'd passed on the road earlier, sorting through the details—clothing, posture, the way the villagers had looked at one another: brief, familiar glances, casual and unguarded, never lingering too long.
This time, when she activated the jutsu, the improvement was immediate. Still rough in places, but the difference was night and day.
"Better," I said, flipping another page. "Your left eye's still a little off, and you're clenching your jaw too much. But yeah—this version might actually fool someone who's not looking too closely."
She frowned. "How do you even notice stuff like that?"
"Practice, and a disturbingly good eye for detail." I murmured, scribbling a note in the margin. "Keep working on it. The more natural it looks, the less likely those assassins are to spot us."
She was just starting another attempt when Mikoto stepped into the doorway, holding a small plate like it might break if she moved too fast. On it sat what could only be described as the world's most apologetic sandwich.
"Sorry," she murmured, setting it down on the low table beside the couch. "That's all I could manage with what they had in the kitchen. Some kind of fish paste and pickled vegetables."
I glanced at the sad little thing—uneven bread, fillings sliding out like they were trying to escape—and smiled. "You kidding? After the night we've had, this looks like a feast."
"You're allowed to call it sad. I won't be offended," she said, easing down beside me. Her shoulder brushed mine for just a second. I caught the faint scent of her shampoo beneath the clean, mineral bite of hot spring steam. "You already paid, and we haven't even touched our ryokan dinner. They probably had real food. Meat. Fresh vegetables. Not something scraped out of a jar."
"Hey," I said gently. "We're alive. We've got a roof over our heads, and someone who cared enough to make me a sandwich even when she was tired. That counts for something."
Her lips tugged into a small smile. "It's just fish paste."
"It's perfect," I said, picking up the sandwich and taking a bite. The fish paste was salty and rich, the pickled vegetables sharp enough to cut through it. Rough around the edges, but strangely comforting.
"See?" I said, mouth half full. "Perfect."
Mikoto let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. The tension eased from her shoulders. "You're just saying that."
"I'm not. Though I'll admit," I said, licking a bit of fish paste from my thumb, "I've already started planning what I'm going to cook once we get actual ingredients. Real spices. Fresh garlic sizzling in oil. Maybe some thick pork belly. Get it crispy on the edges, all that fat dripping. Melts right on your tongue."
Across the room, Tsume let out an audible whine.
"Stop," she groaned. "You're doing it on purpose."
I grinned. "A hot pot, maybe. Rich broth, tender meat, vegetables that haven't been pickled to death... Oh—and rice. Real rice. Steaming, fluffy, slightly sweet."
"You monster, now you're just being mean, I'm trying to focus here."
"Then focus on your breathing," I called, leaning back into the couch and thumbing the corner of the book.
Mikoto smiled, some of the tension leaving her shoulders, but then her expression grew serious again. "Shinji... who were those men? The ones who attacked us?"
I chewed thoughtfully, considering how much to tell her. "I have some ideas, but I'm not sure if I should—" I paused, a thought occurring to me. "Actually, did you happen to grab a bingo book when you packed our gear?"
"I did." She reached into her pack and pulled out the familiar booklet. "Why?"
I took it and started flipping through, skimming the rows of faces and inked descriptions. "Just want to check something."
It took a few minutes, but then I found him. The last assassin—the one who'd bled out in the alley. The photo was older, his hair shorter, eyes a little less dead, but it was definitely him. Same sharp cheekbones. Same predator's gaze.
"Koichi Ando," I read aloud. "Missing-nin from Kirigakure. Charged with assassination, espionage, and theft of village secrets. Bounty: 85,000 ryo."
Mikoto leaned closer to look at the page. "That's one of them?"
"The last one we killed, yeah." I snapped the book shut. "Which means we weren't just jumped by nobodies—we were dealing with professionals. Hired killers."
"But why would missing-nin want to kill us?" Tsume had stopped practicing altogether, her focus now locked on me. "We're just genin. Did someone hire them?"
"Missing-nin don't usually work for free," Mikoto said quietly, her brow furrowed in thought. "And they definitely don't target random genin teams unless..." She looked at me with dawning realization. "Could this be connected to your secret mission from Tsunade-sensei?"
I sighed and rubbed my forehead. "You're too sharp for your own good, you know that?"
"So that's a yes," she said, voice flat.
"It might be the case," I admitted, setting the bingo book aside. "Which is exactly why we can't leave Yugakure until we complete the mission. We need to find our target as fast as possible, deliver the message, and get home before more of these bastards show up."
Tsume blinked. "Wait. More of them?"
"Where there's one missing-nin, there's usually more," I said. "And if someone's paying good money to have us killed, they're not going to stop after one failed attempt."
Silence settled over the room. Tsume looked like she had a dozen questions bubbling behind her teeth. Mikoto sat back, her lips pressed in a thin line, eyes distant. Thinking.
"Right then," I said, trying to lighten the mood. "All the more reason to get stronger while we can. Knowledge is power, and right now, I've got some reading to catch up on, and then some sleep. Hopefully in that order."
I glanced at Tsume. "Keep practicing your henge. Get it tight, then get some rest. We'll need every edge we can get tomorrow."
She gave a faint nod, still distracted.
I turned back to the medical text, flipping pages with one hand while holding the half-eaten sandwich in the other. Tsunade's notes were savage but layered with insight—hidden threads tying chakra theory to living anatomy.
I didn't just read them. I studied. Connected dots. Mapped chakra threads onto nerves, imagined how they pulsed through tissue. Flexed my fingers and watched the diagrams like they might move if I understood them well enough. The technique demanded incredibly precise control—too little chakra and nothing happened; too much, and you could actually damage the patient's cells.
I set the sandwich down, wiped my fingers, and began forming the seals described in the margins.
The chakra moved differently than before. Warmer. More precise. Like threading silk through a needle in the dark.
When I opened my eyes, my right hand glowed with a faint green light.
"Holy..." Tsume had frozen mid-practice, eyes locked on my glowing hand. "Did you just learn that from a book?"
"Looks like it." I flexed my fingers, watching green chakra swirl around them in soft spirals. It didn't hurt—just felt different.
I needed to test it, see if it actually worked. Without really thinking about it, I reached for one of my kunai and made a small cut on my left forearm. Nothing deep, just enough to draw blood.
"Shinji!" Mikoto grabbed my wrist. "What are you doing?"
"Testing," I said, gently pulling free. "Don't worry."
I pressed my glowing right hand to the wound. The effect was instant.
A warm, tingling sensation bloomed beneath my skin, as if the chakra were stitching the wound together thread by thread. Blood welled up, then stopped. The cut pulled shut on its own, smooth and clean. New skin formed in its place, soft and pale.
In less than thirty seconds, it was over. Only a faint pink line remained—and even that was already fading.
"That's incredible," Mikoto breathed, brushing her finger across the spot where the wound had been.
"And incredibly dangerous if you screw it up." I let the jutsu fade and flexed my hand, trying to shake off the odd warmth still lingering in my skin. "The book says if you use too much chakra, you can kill the cells. Too little and nothing happens. It's all about walking the edge without falling off."
I leaned back into the couch, eyes on the fading mark along my arm. The sandwich sat untouched beside me, forgotten as my thoughts drifted—not to the jutsu, but to the bigger problem. Danzo. No amount of healing would fix what was coming if I didn't figure out a way to deal with him first.
Then, without a word, Mikoto reached over and picked up the half-eaten sandwich, taking a bite like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
She gave me a quick glance and said, "Well… if you're learning to heal yourself, I guess I don't have to stress about accidentally killing you with dinner anymore."
I smirked. "Comforting. Remind me to keep my jutsu ready whenever you offer to cook."
Across the room, Tsume was staring at us, eyes wide in a mix of disbelief and something that looked a lot like secondhand embarrassment.
"What?" Mikoto asked, noticing Tsume's expression.
Tsume blinked, then rolled her eyes like she couldn't believe what she'd just witnessed. "Nothing," she muttered, shaking her head. Before either of us could respond, she turned back to her corner with a dramatic sigh. "Going back to practicing. At least chakra doesn't flirt in front of me."
Mikoto leaned back beside me, brushing a few crumbs from her lap—clearly choosing to ignore the comment. "So. What's next? Do we go looking for your contact, or start figuring out who sent the assassins?"
"We find Jiraiya and deliver the message," I said finally. "The sooner we complete this mission, the sooner we can get back to Konoha and out of whoever's crosshairs we've wandered into."
She bumped my shoulder again. "Think we'll actually find him tomorrow?"
I thought about it for a moment—tracking down a legendary pervert in a village full of hot springs while avoiding professional assassins.
"We'll find him," I said, settling deeper into the couch with the medical text. "How hard can it be to locate one white-haired pervert with a giggling problem?"
"Famous last words," Tsume muttered from across the room, finally getting her henge to look almost right. Almost.
...
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